


all i wanna hear you say is

by crimsonxflowers



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: (grey-ace technically but no tag for that), Asexual Character, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 21:33:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5717872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonxflowers/pseuds/crimsonxflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No one? What, ever?" He tries to keep his tone light but it's hard to hide the surprise.</p><p>Meyer exhales—it's not quite loud enough to be a sigh, but there is an edge of something like exasperation to the sound. "No one. Ever."</p>
            </blockquote>





	all i wanna hear you say is

**Author's Note:**

> title from "R U Mine?" because I'm secretly the least creative person ever

"Where're your cigarettes?" Meyer’s words are muffled, spoken against the bare skin of Charlie's shoulder as they catch their breath, tangled up in each other and the sheets of Charlie’s bed.

“What, you ain’t got enough of your own to smoke?” Charlie snorts and flaps his hand over Meyer’s back, in the general direction of the rest of the room. “Might be some in th’drawer,” he slurs against the crown of Meyer’s skull, too listless to do anything more productive. Meyer hums an affirmative and shifts against his side, but doesn’t actually move more than that, and Charlie grins to himself, more than a little satisfied at Meyer’s reluctance to move. “Gonna give me a big head, if I’m good enough in bed to keep you away from the smokes.”

"Hardly a ringing endorsement, when there's no one else to compare to," Meyer comments dryly—and if he weren't still pressed up along Charlie's side he might be able to hide the way he tenses once he realizes what he's said.

As it is, that's what catches Charlie's attention, more so than the words themselves; Meyer's never been one to talk about that kind of stuff, so Charlie'd figured he was just keeping it quiet, but—"No one? What, ever?" He tries to keep his tone light but it's hard to hide the surprise.

Meyer exhales—it's not quite loud enough to be a sigh, but there is an edge of something like exasperation to the sound. "No one. Ever." He rolls onto his back and Charlie has to stop himself from reaching out, but Meyer doesn't go any further, doesn't leave, just stares at the ceiling. The silence drags out, just to the edge of uncomfortable, before Charlie breaks and says something, just to get that guarded, uncomfortable _look_ off of Meyer’s face.

"Hard to believe none'a those little schoolgirls wanted a crack at you, with your..." Charlie trails off, fingers drumming against his chest as he tries to drag up the phrase. "Your shiny whatsit, your tiny little face." He tilts his head and grins, waiting for said face to crack into the smirk he knows is coming.

"The phrase is ' _shayna punim_ ,' and your Yiddish is atrocious, please stop trying," and there's the smirk, Meyer's eyes darting down from the ceiling to meet Charlie's. Charlie's not even gonna pretend he's not satisfied with the result. The quirk of Meyer's lips softens, and he shakes his head, fingers twisting in the edge of the sheets—whether from nerves or the need for a cigarette, or both, Charlie can't tell. "It wasn't... I didn't want any of them." He inhales, eyes closing, and Charlie couldn't look away if he tried. Meyer doesn't do this very often, doesn't usually keep talking once Charlie's given him the opportunity to move on. Charlie's not going to let it slip by or ruin it by interrupting again.

His patience pays off quicker than he’s expecting. Meyer sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist as he twists the fabric between his fingertips. “There’s only… there was only ever one girl I was—interested in,” Meyer says quietly. He’s not meeting Charlie’s eyes anymore, and the unease rolls off him in waves.

Charlie frowns, propping himself up on an elbow so he’s on Meyer’s level again. "So there _was_ a girl? When?" He didn't know about any girl. He'd have known if there'd been a girl. Meyer wouldn’t have said there wasn’t anyone ever if there had _been a girl_. Right?

Meyer glances up from where he's fiddling with the edge of the sheet, and his expression is carefully blank before he looks back down. "I didn't—nothing happened. She was one of Michael Black's girls, and..." His shoulders move in what might be a shrug, but the motion's too small to be much of anything. "You know how he handled his girls when they stepped out of line."

"Oh." Charlie says it quietly, putting the pieces together quick once he figures out which neighborhood pimp Meyer's talking about. It explains why Meyer never goes to any of the cathouses on Madison, at least. Charlie thought maybe it wasn't girls Meyer was interested in at all. It's somehow harder to imagine that it's only ever been _one_. Harder than even that to think it’s been one girl and _Charlie_ , and no one else. He clears his throat, a little awkwardly. "But you and her never...?"

Meyer snorts and finally looks up, whatever place he'd gone to in his head cleared out of his expression and replaced with incredulous amusement. "I was _twelve_ , Charlie, nothing would've happened anyway." The amusement drains away as he leans against the wall behind him. "I’m just saying, she was the only one I ever thought about... like that, aside from—" and he flicks his wrist, indicating Charlie's languid sprawl across the sheets and the clothes that are still strewn between the bedroom door and Charlie's bed. Apparently admitting out loud that he thinks about Charlie _like that_ is where Meyer’s sense of propriety draws the line. He finally turns to rummage through the bedside table, conveniently avoiding Charlie's gaze as he does it. Charlie can see the dull pink flush spreading across his neck and ears, though, and the thought that Meyer's flustered about this makes Charlie grin. He's not gonna say it to Meyer's face, because he likes his balls attached to his body, thanks, but it's _cute_.

Meyer swings his legs over the edge of the bed, eyes on his pants across the room (and the cigarette case presumably contained within), but before he can go anywhere, Charlie reaches out and catches him around the waist. He ignores Meyer's little yelp of surprise and tugs him back into the sheets, rolling them over til Meyer's flat on his back beneath him. "'m not done with you yet, little Meyer," he growls, pinning Meyer's wrists to the bed beside his head.

Meyer pushes up against the grip—just enough that they both know he could get out of it if he wanted to—then subsides. "Of course you aren't," he snipes, one eyebrow cocked up at Charlie despite the color in his face, who grins and leans down to bite at Meyer's bottom lip.

"Don't hear you complainin' any. So..." He settles between Meyer's legs and rocks his hips idly—neither of them are ready to go again just yet, but it won't take long, and it feels good in the meantime—and grins toothily down at him. "Just me, huh?"

Meyer rolls his eyes, as if that'll hide the flush that's still spreading across his face. "That is what I said, isn't it?" He huffs out, acting all put-upon and above it all like he's not already getting hard against Charlie's hip. Charlie hums, mock-contemplatively, and presses his lips to Meyer's, steadily rolling his hips as he kisses him. He’s not gonna pretend he gets what Meyer’s saying, how he goes through life only wanting one person at a time, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t do something to him, knowing no one else has had Meyer. He waits to say anything more until Meyer's moving against him too—Meyer's just barely arching up into Charlie's lazy thrusts, controlled as always, but his breath fanning against Charlie's cheek is a bit more ragged now.

He tightens his grip on Meyer's wrists, pressing them more firmly against the bed. "Means no one else has done this to you, right?" Charlie asks, ducking down to press his lips to Meyer's throat. Meyer doesn't say anything this time, but that's alright, Charlie thinks. He doesn't have to. He grazes his teeth against the side of Meyer's neck and Meyer's thighs tighten around his hips in response. With his face tight against Meyer's throat, he feels more than hears the sound he makes, that muffled little whimper that means Meyer's falling apart faster than he wants to. "Means the only one who's seen you like this is me," he murmurs against Meyer's collarbone, pulling back to get a look at Meyer's face. He looks _wrecked_ , head turned so his cheek's pressed to the pillow and eyes squeezed tight as he tries to catch his breath. Charlie stares down at him, transfixed, long enough that Meyer opens his eyes and meets his gaze, pupils blown to hell, and Charlie swallows hard at the bolt of heat that shivers down his spine. "Means you're all mine." His voice drops to a possessive rasp, and Charlie rolls his hips extra hard as he says it. Meyer gasps, squeezing his eyes shut again. He doesn't deny it, just clenches his hands into fists—Charlie can feel the bones and tendons shift under his palms—and inhales a few shaky breaths before opening his eyes.

"What about you?" Meyer shoots back, his brows knitting together at the waver in his own voice. Charlie stops moving and stares down at Meyer, surprised into stillness.

"What about me?" His grip on Meyer's wrists loosens, and Meyer bites his lip, like he wishes he hadn't said it. But he swallows and stares up at Charlie, eyes hard.

"Are you mine?" He bites it out, like it hurts to ask, like he's giving something away by saying the words at all. And maybe he is, because there's something guarded in Meyer's face again, under the heat of arousal, like he's bracing for a blow.

None of the stuff Charlie'd said about Meyer, about no one else having seen him like this, none of that's true for Charlie. He's had plenty of girls before Meyer. Meyer knows about them, saw Charlie bring neighborhood girls home and heard him brag about visiting the cathouses (things Charlie thinks about with more than a little guilt now). And there are other things Charlie doesn't think about, things Meyer doesn't know about, that make the idea of _belonging to someone_ creep uncomfortably under his skin. Anyone else asking, he'd say as much, or kick them out of bed for daring.

But this is _Meyer_. Meyer who's had his back for years, Meyer who's killed for him, Meyer who's never asked for anything Charlie wasn't already dying to give, Meyer who's staring up at him with icy resignation building up behind his eyes like he's already said _no_ , like it's what Meyer's _expecting_ —

Charlie can't find his voice, doesn't trust it not to betray him, so he nods, and he can't tell if the way Meyer's eyes widen is relief or disbelief or something else. But the ice splinters and Charlie lets go of Meyer's wrists to tilt his face up, and Meyer's fingers tangle in his hair to pull him close. They barely take the time to breathe as they kiss, like there's nothing else that matters. They move against each other, urgent now, and Meyer cries out against Charlie's lips when Charlie reaches between them and wraps his hand around them both. Charlie's mind trips over phrases damning in their truth, things like _caro_ and _t'amu_ and _I been yours since the day we met_. He keeps his mouth pressed to Meyer's skin to keep the words from spilling out.

Meyer’s not usually all that loud, but it’s like something in him’s cracked open tonight. Every shift of Charlie’s body against his rips sounds out of him, and every whimper and moan urges Charlie’s hand faster, until Meyer’s spilling over Charlie’s palm, face pressed tight to Charlie’s throat as he trembles. It doesn’t take Charlie long to follow him over the edge, muffling noises of his own with his teeth in Meyer’s shoulder when he comes.

Charlie’s not sure how long they lay there, curled into each other, before Meyer’s shaky breathing evens out and he stops clutching Charlie’s shoulders like he’s the only lifeline Meyer’s got. Not that Charlie minds. He buries his face in Meyer’s hair, pretending like the world hasn’t shifted beneath his feet. Pretending like admitting he’s _Meyer’s_ isn’t the most at home, the most _right_ , Charlie’s felt in longer than he can remember.


End file.
